


Operation Artemis

by EarthboundCosmonaut



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Fluff, Four times Jean Innocent has dinner with a member of her team, Friendship, Gen, Hathaway takes Jean to the cinema, Implied Hobson/Lewis, Laura and Jean do shots, Nearly a five times, Robbie takes Jean for a curry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23631841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/EarthboundCosmonaut
Summary: Her PA tells her the favourite theory is that Mr Innocent is long gone - scared off by a terrifying wife and a job that ate family life for breakfast and spat out the scraps. Apparently the pretence that he is still around is just a tactic on Jean's part to further her career ambitions. She's more amused than insulted by this theory. She hadn't thought that Chief Superintendents were real people when she was a junior officer either.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 78





	1. Innocent

**Author's Note:**

> I found this languishing in my WIPs folder. It's my take on the mystery of Mr Innocent, as told through a fluffy team friendship fic. Short and mostly sweet. Very mild crack in the last chapter.

The trouble with working with detectives - the good ones that is, there is a different set of challenges associated with the bad ones - is that they figure things out. Sooner or later, the personal life that she goes to such lengths to keep private becomes a tantalising mystery to be solved - light relief from the more unpleasant puzzles they are tasked with solving from day to day.

She had a few years' grace when she transferred to Oxfordshire CID. Most of the officers were too scared of her to engage in anything more than idle canteen gossip. Her PA tells her that the favourite theory is that Mr Innocent is long gone - scared off by a terrifying wife and a job that ate family life for breakfast and spat out the scraps. Apparently the pretence that he is still around is just a tactic on Jean's part to further her career ambitions. She's more amused than insulted by this theory. She hadn't thought that Chief Superintendents were real people when she was a junior officer either.

It’s not as though she _never_ speaks about her personal life. She makes references to her sister’s baby, to family gatherings, to her husband being away or at home. People know she has a son and, up to a point, she answers questions about how Chris’ police training is going and, later, how he’s getting on in Manchester. It’s just Phil that’s not up for discussion. She doesn’t like the judgement and the assumptions that come with people knowing that her husband is a senior infantry officer. Their families have been muttering that ‘it’ll never last’ for years. She gets her fill of uninvited sympathy about how lonely she must be when Phil is away from her sister. She doesn’t enjoy the prurient speculation about ‘who wears the trousers’ at home when the truth is that the last thing either of them wants behind closed doors is to be in charge of _anything_.

It comes as no surprise that Lewis is the first to challenge what she has come to think of as the 'imaginary husband' theory. He is both one of the sharper coppers (for all he pretends otherwise) and one of the more insightful about human nature. As he starts to emerge from his fog of grief she sees him start to observe her with more interest, even though he is never so bold as to actually _ask_ her anything about herself.

She still invites him to accompany her to concerts when Phil is away and makes ill-fated attempts to set him up with single friends because he’s one of the few genuinely decent men that she knows. He’s pleasant, undemanding company and she thinks he deserves some happiness after the terrible hand that life has dealt him. And so she ignores the warning signs for longer than she should. She chooses not to see his gaze lingering on the regimental plaques in the hall the evening that he comes to collect her for a concert, and the pair of men’s walking boots lined up neatly next to hers in the porch. She avoids noticing the spark of interest he shows in any unguarded comment she happens to make about her husband’s movements. It can be lonely being the Chief Super and while she’s under no illusion that she and Lewis are friends, she doesn’t want to have to confine her interactions with him to the purely professional, either.

When the truth finally comes out he handles it with his usual, unexpected delicacy and she’s grateful that she hasn’t pushed him away.


	2. Lewis

Ellie Jones is seven years old and missing. After fifty six hours, Jean and Lewis hold a press conference to appeal to the public for information. Jean knows the statistics – that at this stage they’re more likely to be appealing for information about the location of a body than the whereabouts of a living child. She hopes, as Ellie’s parents shake her hand and thank her for all her help, that Ellie will be the exception but in her heart of hearts she doesn’t believe it. British forward operating bases in Kandahar are entering their third successive day of Taliban bombardment. She hasn’t heard from Phil in five days and she’s fresh out of hope.

The press conference airs on the six o’clock news. She watches to make sure that the message hasn’t been mangled in the editing process, then switches over to News 24 and watches the ticker tape of British troop casualty numbers scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Lewis finds her staring dumbly at the television, thoughtlessly shredding pages of her notebook into neat strips.

He glances from her blotter to the screen and comprehension dawn across his features. “Any news?” he asks.

“On what? Ellie Jones?”

“Your husband, lass.”

She stares at him in surprise, although she’s not sure why she should be surprised - she’s never bought his northern plodder act. She contemplates denying it, but what would be the point? Instead she shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Lewis purses his lips sympathetically. She waits for him to tell her not to worry, or that she’s sure to hear something soon – all the useless platitudes that she’s sick of hearing from her well-meaning sister. Instead he walks to the coat stand and holds out her jacket to her. “Come on.”

“Where?” she asks, not moving.

“For a curry. I’m out of microwave meals and you’re not getting any work done.”

She glances down at the mound of shredded paper on her desk and realises that it’s pointless to deny this. “All right then, but I’m buying.”

“Fair enough,” he says as she takes her coat from him. “I’ll not turn down a free dinner.”

* * *

They go to a restaurant in Summertown where Lewis is clearly a regular. They are shown to a table in the corner and complimentary beers are brought for them before she’s even had a chance to open the menu. The owner seems very pleased to see her, and Jean gathers that it is the first time that Lewis has brought a woman to eat with him. She wishes that Robbie were on a date, instead of a mercy mission for his miserable boss. She runs through her single friends, wondering if there’s anyone that would be a good match for him, but after the situation with Ginny Harris she’s reluctant to set him up again. She still can’t believe that she’d missed what was going on with Dorian.

On Robbie’s recommendation they share a lamb biriyani, a tandoori mixed grill and some sag aloo. What the selection lacks in imagination, it makes up for in flavour. As they eat, he keeps up an easy stream of conversation. He tells her about his daughter Lyn – her job and her new boyfriend who he thinks might - finally - be a keeper. He tells her about working for the legendary Morse, who was an inspiration and a frustration in equal measure. He tells her some amusing anecdotes from his time in the BVI and, with ill-concealed pride, how Hathaway is ‘coming along nicely’.

He asks her how Chris is doing and she recounts the story of his first arrest – two weeks earlier, as part of a drugs bust in Ancoats. Chris had rung her at the end of a fourteen hour shift, strung out on caffeine and adrenaline, to tell her about it and her heart had nearly exploded with pride. She doesn’t tell Robbie about the pride, but she must conceal it about as well as he’d disguised his pride in Hathaway because he chuckles and says “Sounds like a chip off the old block.”

He waits until their plates have been cleared away and the waiter had brought coffee, hot towels and mints before he says “Would it help to talk about it?”

“About what?” she asks, daring him to push the point.

Robbie is uncowed – has worked for Morse, after all, so is more than capable of weathering her displeasure. “Mr Innocent,” he says softly, echoing the nickname she has used in the past.

She busies herself wiping her hands on one of the towels. She’s never discussed this with a colleague before – certainly not a subordinate. But she trusts Robbie more than most, and if she has to listen to any more of her sister’s well-intentioned but spectacularly unhelpful thoughts on the topic she’ll scream. “I’d prefer that this stays between us,” she tells him.

“Course,” he agrees.

She places her towel on her plate and folds her hands in front of her. “He’s a brigadier – commanding an infantry brigade in Afghanistan.”

He nods – had obviously guessed as much, more or less. “That’s not a very safe part of the world at the moment.”

“The last time I spoke to him he was just about to be deployed to a forward operating base in Kandahar province. That was five days ago.”

He stirs sugar into his coffee. “I’d be goin’ out of me mind,” he comments eventually.

She lets out a tense, humourless laugh. “Believe it or not, you do get used to it – somewhat, anyway.”

“Aye, somewhat. You’re only human though.”

“That’s not what they’re saying in the canteen.”

“There’s a lot of rubbish gets spoken in the canteen.”


	3. Hathaway

Ellie Jones is still missing and there's something about cases involving children that frays the temper like nothing else. Jean finds herself snapping at Hathaway for a careless error. She catches herself mid-flow. She's standing in the middle of an open plan office, half a dozen detectives doing a poor job of pretending that they're not watching. Even if she is entirely justified in the reprimand, this is not the way to deliver it.

She snaps her mouth shut. Takes a deep breath through her nostrils. Breathes out slowly.

“I know,” she resumes more calmly, “that everyone is tired. If it has reached the point where it has impaired your judgement then go home and rest. That applies to all of you.”

She catches Robbie's eyes as she turns away. Ignores the sympathy.

Hathaway appears in her office half an hour later, full of remorse, and it’s not a stretch to imagine that Lewis has filled him in on a few prescient facts.

“I've come to apologise Ma'am.”

“That's not necessary, Sergeant. I overreacted.”

“Not at all Ma'am. You were right - I am tired. I'm going to call it a day.”

“Very well. Have a good evening.” She turns her attention back to her computer, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't say anything either, just hovers in the doorway like a lost giraffe. “Was there something else?”

“I uh...”

“Spit it out, Sergeant.”

“I thought you might want to join me for a drink Ma'am.”

“Has Lewis put you up to this?”

“Yes Ma’am,” he says, his face impassive.

“It’s not necessary, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“He said you’d say that, Ma’am.”

“What else did Lewis say?”

“That he’d have my warrant card if I don’t make sure you have a relaxing evening out, Ma’am. He seemed to be under the impression that otherwise you might go home and brood.”

“Did he indeed? The Inspector certainly has an active imagination.”

* * *

They go to a wine bar that’s recently opened near the nick. Hathaway buys a pint of bitter for himself and a glass of pinot grigio for her. She asks for a small glass, but the monstrosity he returns from the bar with must contain the best part of half a bottle.

Hathaway lacks Robbie’s easy conversation, but he is attentive and deferential, and easing his evident discomfort gives her something to think about besides troop movements in Kandahar. She teases out of him that his partnership with Lewis is ‘productive’, that he lives in Jericho even though he could afford a classier part of town because he likes the atmosphere, and that he plays guitar in a band. She has no idea what ‘world fusion’ music is, but Hathaway warms to the subject and talks with some enthusiasm about its roots, key figures and seminal albums.

“Another drink, Ma’am?” he asks when he finally pauses for breath.

She shakes her head. “Not on a school night.”

“Dinner then?”

“You really are determined to make an evening of it, aren’t you?”

He nods. “Inspector Lewis’ instructions were very clear, Ma’am. And besides,” he adds, the tips of his ears turning pink as he realises quite how unflattering this sounds, “the alternative is a night on the sofa with a box set and a bottle of wine. I’d like the company.”

“All right then,” she says, ceding defeat more easily than she might have on another occasion. “How would you feel about seeing a film? I haven’t been to the pictures in ages.”

The corners of Hathaway’s mouth quirk upwards momentarily. She tells herself it’s amusement at her antiquated terminology rather than relief at not having to fish for small talk for a couple of hours. “Sounds good. What do you fancy?”

“You choose Sergeant, I’m sure your finger is far closer to the pulse of popular culture than mine.”

* * *

They walk to the nearest cinema: an art house affair with red draylon folding seats. She presses a twenty pound note into Hathaway’s hand. “You buy the tickets, I’ll get us some snacks.”

When she returns with popcorn and bottled water ten minutes later, he is loitering in the lobby, looking about as relaxed and inconspicuous as a flasher in a primary school playground.

Either Hathaway picks the film at random, or there is a side to him that she had not anticipated.

It’s really not her kind of film, but she stays because watching Hathaway’s increasing discomfort is the most fun she’s had in ages. He slumps in his seat when the first orgy comes on screen, and keeps slumping so that by the end of the film he is practically horizontal: his knees jammed up against the back of the chair in front and his face flaming red.

“Well,” she says as the credits roll and the house lights come up, “You’re full of surprises Sergeant.”

Hathaway directs a mournful stare at her, his cheeks radiating heat. “I’m so sorry Ma’am. I had no idea. I thought it was going to be about ballet.”

“Well, there was ballet involved,” she allows. “Although I’m not sure you could describe it as the main theme.”

“No Ma’am,” he agrees.

“You would have made a terrible priest, Sergeant,” she tells him.

Hathaway nods.

“You’re a good copper though.


	4. Hobson

She's seen her sister have panic attacks on many occasions, but she still doesn't recognise what's going on when it happens to her. Just knows that she feels hot and sick and shaky. It’s hard to breathe. She goes to the ladies and splashes water on her face and wrists. It makes no difference. She wonders if she might be having a heart attack because she definitely feels like she's dying.

The door opens then closes again. There’s a hand on her shoulder.

“All right Jean, just breathe out. A nice, big, slow breath.”

It’s Doctor Hobson. At least it’s not one of her officers. She concentrates on breathing out, as instructed. The pressure on her chest eases marginally.

Eventually she starts to feel more human. Dr Hobson takes her wrist and times her pulse.

"Have you had trouble sleeping lately?"

Jean nods.

"Been skipping meals?"

"Not deliberately."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. Would you say you're under more pressure than normal?"

"It has been a trying few weeks," she allows.

Dr Hobson raises an eyebrow.

Jean sighs. "A seven year old girl is dead, we don't have any leads on her killer and the national press are starting to make noises about Police incompetence which means that the Chief Constable is starting to question _my_ competence. So yes, you could say there has been some pressure."

"That's consistent with my observations," she says, releasing Jean's wrist. "Living patients aren't my forte, but I diagnose stress."

"I know what stress feels like, Doctor, and it's not-"

"You had a panic attack." The doctor's voice is blunt and firm. "Take it as a warning sign that you need to take better care of yourself."

"I take perfectly good care of myself."

Dr Hobson just rolls her eyes. “If I had a pound for every dead police officer who’s said that I wouldn’t be spending my days in a morgue.”

Jean rolls her eyes in response. How many times has she heard variations on that comment in her career? “What would you recommend, Doctor?”

"I prescribe a square meal and a stiff drink."

"That doesn't sound like very good medical advice to me."

"Like I said, living patients aren't my forte. If you prefer, you can wait for Robbie and James to catch up with you?"

"When you put it like that..."

Dr Hobson smiles. "I thought as much. Pack up your desk. I'll meet you outside in ten minutes."

* * *

They go to a chic Italian restaurant near Christ Church and order generous helpings of pasta and chianti.

She doesn't know Dr Hobson very well. She doesn't dislike the woman - quite the contrary: she appreciates her matter of fact manner and dry sense of humour - she just doesn't really know her. Although their paths cross professionally, they don't have much direct interaction.

They stick to small talk while they look over the menu and order drinks: swapping notes on favourite restaurants. When the waiter brings their food, Dr Hobson gets down to business.

"It's not just work, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Robbie and James are worried about you. They're very secretive about it - can't get a word out of them. They give each other furtive little updates. They even have a code name for it: Operation Artemis."

"Very original." She's not entirely surprised, although she wishes they'd redirect the energy they were obviously expending on Operation Artemis to solving actual crimes.

Jean lays down her fork. “My husband calls it suicide watch when one of the boys insists on keeping me company for the evening. He thinks it’s hilarious.”

Dr Hobson snorts. “He wouldn’t think it was so funny if he’d had to suffer through an evening of it. Well-meaning and painfully executed in my experience – and that’s just Robbie. The less said about Hathaway the better.”

“Quite,” Jean agrees.

“So what is it that’s inspired this little crusade of theirs?”

Jean sighs. What would be the harm in telling? Dr Hobson doesn’t work for her. It would be quite nice to have someone she can speak to about it. “Robbie found out that my husband is in the Army. He’s on deployment at the moment. In Kandahar.”

“Oh,” says Dr Hobson. She drains the last of her wine and stares contemplatively at the empty bottle. "I prescribe shots."

Jean snorts. "I understand now why your specialism is dead people."

* * *

"I think he realised he'd made a poor choice when the first orgy came on screen, but he was too embarrassed to admit it."

Laura nearly chokes on the shot of sambuca she is in the process of downing. "Poor James!"

"Poor James!? I'm the one who had to sit through it for another hour while he held his coat over his crotch."

"You could have left."

"I was having too much fun watching him squirm," Jean admits. "Besides, if we'd left we might have had to talk to each other, and I'd exhausted my supply of chat for the day."

"He's not much of a conversationalist," Laura agrees. "He has other fine qualities though. Very easy on the eye, for instance."

"I thought you only had eyes for Inspector Lewis."

Laura glances sideways at her. "Inspector Lewis is not interested in anyone except his dead wife.”

“That might have been true a year ago. He’s coming to terms with it now though. And he’s very complimentary about your forensic skills.”

Laura blushes the same shade of pink as the gerbera on the table. Jean hides her smile by downing another shot.


	5. Mr Innocent

She takes them out for dinner the day they make an arrest in the Ellie Jones case. Nothing fancy: a Thai restaurant near the nick that is used to catering for parties of police officers at odd times of day.

They sit in a booth near the back – Jean and Laura on one side and Robbie and Hathaway opposite. The atmosphere is sombre. It’s a hollow victory, arresting a child killer. Nothing can quite make up for all that lost potential.

When their drinks arrive, Robbie proposes a toast. “Here’s to Ellie.”

“To Ellie.”

She takes a sip of her beer and wonders how many more cases like this she can take before she succumbs to the lure of early retirement.

“I tell you what,” says Robbie, piling rice onto his plate, “I’m looking forward to the weekend. I’m getting to old to be working these hours.”

“That’s funny sir. The other day you said you were feeling like a new man.”

Laura coughs on her water and Jean sees the two of them exchange a glance. _About bloody time_ , she thinks.

“Aye, well that was before I spent half of last night in an interrogation room with you and a suspect,” grouses Robbie.

They’re interrupted by someone pulling up a chair at their table. “Sorry I’m late,” says Phil, leaning down to kiss Jean’s cheek. “I see you didn’t wait.”

“I couldn’t be sure that you weren’t just a figment of my imagination,” Jean tells him.

James’ eyes are practically out on stalks. She enjoys an opportunity to make him speechless – it’s usually the other way around.

“Mr Innocent, I presume?” says Laura.

Phil nods. His arms and face are deeply tanned from his deployment, although Jean knows that it’s only a squaddie suntan: from the neck down he’s an archetypally pasty Englishman. “Rumours of my demise are greatly exaggerated,” he tells them.

“Very nice to meet you at last,” says Robbie, reaching across the table to shake his hand.

“You must be Inspector Lewis. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“We’ve heard almost nothing about you,” says Laura, offering her own hand.

“I’m sure that was entirely intentional – Doctor Hobson, is it?”

“That’s me. I’m flattered you’ve heard of me.”

“Jean does mention work occasionally, when there are no rugby scores to keep me up to date on. There’s one operation that seems to have been keeping her particularly busy recently. Artemis, is it?”

Hathaway chokes violently on his green curry. She watches as Robbie slaps him firmly on the back and Laura nudges a glass of water towards him.

“I thought the least I could do was buy you all dinner to say thank you,” says Phil when he’s recovered.

“That’s not necessary, sir,” says Hathaway hoarsely, his face puce.

“Nonsense. Now tell me, are you Sergeant Hathaway?”

Hathaway nods.

“Jean tells me you have quite racy taste in films.”

Jean watches as the red creeps from Hathaway’s cheeks down below the collar of his shirt. Next to her, Laura is shaking with silent laughter.

“What’s this?” says Robbie, glancing between the four of them. “Have I missed something?”

“Oh, have you ever,” Laura tells him with a wicked grin.


End file.
